Deathsworn (Wattys 2018 Winner)

9 - Broke, Not Broken

In the days back before the Gallowmen, the days before the Burned Priests and the Deathsworn, Bard had known a guardsman who had been cudgeled so hard on his crown that he hadn't woken for two days.

When the man had, to the astonishment of the physicians, risen, with no lasting trauma, he had spoken of his seeing his life, as though in a dream, unfolding before his eyes. He had told of being at death's door, of standing on the cusp of the Great Inbetween, waiting to be judged, and witnessing all that he had done lain bare.

Bard had no such epiphany. He hadn't seen his brother, he hadn't seen the night when he'd first been taken to Fara Mordova, he certainly hadn't seen any door to death. He recalled a fist coming at him. From there, his lids had gradually opened and he had next looked upon the inside of a pavilion.

Pain had become a companion. It invaded the recesses of his head and sought a path down into his left shoulder and beyond. He was bare but for his breeches, his armour stripped. Across his chest his left arm was strapped, a thick tunic of sorts reaching around his neck and holding it firmly in place.

Bard released a groan, one that assured him he must still be alive. Natural light invaded the pavilion, enough to tell him it was day. But what day? How long have I lain here?

'Your head is thicker than a shield, Lord Eran.'

Bard whipped his head toward the voice and was rewarded with an eruption of needles inside his skull. A portly man stood, dressed in the all-black robes of a physician, staring at Bard from the entrance to the tent. His block-features and driven words spoke of Scavania. His face was wisened, his eyes somehow sad despite his hardy exterior. Bard looked for blood on him but found none. That's why they wear black.

He tried his voice and it croaked and stuttered out. 'You ... saved me.'

The physician laughed. 'Saved you? The Elders saved you, Lord Eran, not I. I thought you stone dead the moment they carried you here. I must confess, I did little save for strap your arm and administer tonic for the pain. It would appear you have unfinished business before you go to the Great Inbetween.'

Bard examined himself as best he could. His left shoulder was a ruin of dark blue shading to black with heavy bruising. 'What's wrong with me?'

'To hear the men who carried you here, you were struck, flush, by the finest jouster in Oblivia. A broken arm, I'm almost certain. As for your skull? There is no swelling that I can see, no wound. Of course, that doesn't attest for what's happened inside. It could take a while before the full extent of the problem is made clear.'

'How long has it been?' Is the tourney over? Did I sleep through just to die at the hands of the Burned Priests?

'You've been at rest for half a day, no more. It may feel like an age, it often does with injuries to the head.'

Half a day? That's it? 'Weasel ... where's Weasel?'

'Who?'

'My squire,' Bard murmured, the clarity of his surroundings wavering as they wished.

'Ah, the young one. I had him removed some time ago. If you don't mind me saying so, my lord, he may be the worst ale-boy I've ever encountered. Is he dim-witted?'

'I took him on as a favour,' Bard said, shuffling himself in an attempt to stay awake.

The physician nodded, eyes examining Bard's body carefully. 'I had to call guards to remove him from outside the tent. This after I had removed him myself from inside the tent.'

'He left?'

'He did ... only to come back with more. Your master-at-arms, a Zaffaarian claiming to be your personal guest, one or two others. I've had them waiting outside until such a time as you are ready to see them.'